


The Stake

by LuvvSnuggleBug



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Colonial, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Puritanism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Warning: Mature Themes, Witch Hunts, Witchcraft, dramione - Freeform, warning: slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuvvSnuggleBug/pseuds/LuvvSnuggleBug
Summary: Hermione has always questioned the church and its authority in the lives of those around her. When her housemaid is accused of witchcraft, Hermione seeks answers for the questions her pastor won't answer. With an epidemic of curses baffling the town, a witch-hunter sails in from England with his son and apprentice, Draco, to find the source of the town's problems. Hermione finds herself having to chose between unimaginable power and knowledge, or sanctity and morality, all while Draco is determined to prove Hermione's sin. Dramione - Slow Burn.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

“Vigilance is nothing without Faith.” The Pastor spoke. He was a large man, towering over all else in the town. His eyes were clear as water and his skin was weathered from age. 

“There is a darkness among us.” The Pastor had the church overflowing with folk. Everyone feared what lurked in the shadows. “It waits behind the veil of sin and gains entry to our body, soul, and mind when we least expect.” 

My babe sister held tight to the golden cross worn around her neck. She feared most that she would be taken by the dark; she had told me just the night before that she heard the wood speak her name. 

“How can we prevail?” asked The Butcher. The Butcher’s face carried deep lines of sorrow for the soul of his eldest son, who had succumbed to voices that called from the wood. I still remembered the gut wrenching wails of The Butcher’s Wife who found her son hanging in the tree in town square. It was the first time I had seen a body, but it wouldn’t be the last. 

“We must have faith.” The Pastor always said the same things, but nobody seemed to notice. A town struck with fear would never notice their beacon of hope was nothing but repetitive verse

Father would have my hide if he knew I had been struck with blasphemous thought. I’d have to remember to say an extra prayer of forgiveness before bed. 

“God will bring all evil to light,” chanted The Tailor’s Wife who always took her seat in the pew behind my family’s. Her daughter, Emily, had been my friend since we were small. Now Emily was to be married the following month, and if my father had his way, my betrothal wouldn’t be far behind. 

I spent the majority of our morning sermons reading the bible. It was the only book I had ever been able to read; Father kept his law books locked in his study. “A lady mustn’t concern herself with the written word.” he had said.

Betsey, our housemaid, had been the one to teach me to read. She told me to never let my father know she had taught me. Betsey had told me of the kinds of books that existed in her old home in the south. She had been housemaid to a doctor who had all sort of books dedicated to natural sciences.

“There are numerous ways to heal the body,” Betsey had told me. She described different herbs and tinctures that could be made to cure ailments. The Doctor that she served had taken an interest in herbal medicines and had been hung for it. The church claimed he was making magic potions and persecuted him for witchcraft. 

I dreamed about reading the forbidden knowledge that books held. I knew from listening to the scholars in the town that some of the cities inland had libraries filled with books. I hoped I should marry a scholar, so that I may have a chance to see a library for myself.

“I ask of everyone in this congregation to keep a keen eye for wickedness, and that any of you who bear witness to such crime report it at once to the church.” The Pastor had a habit of using a lexicon that the common townsfolk would not know. Father said it was a tactic that people in power used to show authority and prestige. Father always made sure that Evelyn and I had an expanded vocabulary that would coincide with our economic status. Father was the town’s persecutor of the law and he used language as a weapon to confuse and incite confessions. 

“Am I a witch?” my babe sister whispered; her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Do not be silly, Evelyn.” I said. “A witch could not stand to wear a cross like you do around your neck.” 

“How does one know what a witch can or cannot do?” Evelyn gripped her necklace so tight I thought she might have drawn blood.

“A witch has a pact with the devil,” I took Evelyn’s hand from her cross to my own and held her securely. “A devil’s ward would be averse to Christ’s imagery. God protects all who worship him.”

“Is God a witch?” 

It pleased me greatly that Evelyn and I were so alike. I remembered when I was her age; I often questioned everything. I wondered what I should tell Evelyn. Father would have nipped her curiosity and forbade her to think as such; that is what he had done with me. 

“How have you come to such a conclusion?”

“God created everything that we know out of nothing, is that not magic?” Evelyn chewed on the inside of her cheek. She often did that when she was deep in thought. 

“You are too clever, Evelyn.” I said. “Perhaps there is such a thing as good magic, a magic that is reserved for God and all those who serve him.”

“I think it would be nice to be a witch,” Evelyn whispered. “A good one, that is.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Good sermon,” Father told The Pastor as we exited the church. We were always one of the last families to leave. The church building served as the courthouse when there was a trial, and Father often stayed after the sermons to talk with The Judge. 

“Good sermon,” I said as Father shook The Pastor’s hand.

“Good to hear,” The Pastor said to me. “I was worried I had become boring when I noticed you and Evelyn in conversation.”

“Forgive me, Father,” I bowed my head. “Evelyn knew not of wickedness. I told her she should not concern herself with such things.”

“Such is true.” The Pastor turned his attention to Evelyn, who clutched my apron and hid her face behind my dress. “For too much knowledge on the subject will lead to wicked things themselves.”

“You needn’t worry about my girls,” Father said. “There is not a thought that strays from the word of God in either their heads.” Father sat his hand upon my shoulder and drew me and Evelyn under his arm. He had a way of still making me feel like a child when I was embraced, but it is always with love and warmth that he held us. “Isn’t that right, girls?”

Evelyn and I both nodded, neither The Pastor nor my Father needed to know what went through my mind. It was for God to decide whether my thoughts amount to sin.

We stopped at the Butcher to buy rabbits for supper. Betsey made the best rabbit stew; she promised she’d teach me how to make it before I was to be married. When I was Evelyn’s age, Betsey would take me into the wood to search for herbs to simmer the rabbits in, but recently Father insisted we only use ingredients from the shops in town. 

“Evelyn, you mustn’t speak during the sermon,” Father said as we walked from the town’s square to our home. “It is imperative that we not draw attention to ourselves.”

Evelyn only nodded; her gaze was fixed to the cobblestone path that led up the hill towards the church. We lived only a few buildings down the hill from the church; Father had made sure of that when he became prosecutor. 

“Is something the matter?” I asked. Father had been quiet since his meeting with The Judge after the sermon. Normally we’d discuss The Pastor’s interpretations of the Bible and how we could bring his teachings into our lives. 

“Nothing for concern.” Father was stern, it was unlike him to be such a way with us. His face was harsh and surly, as it usually was when he was in court. 

“Are you to prepare for a new trial?” I asked. We were nearing our house now; I could see the smoke rising from the chimney. Betsey always boiled water to warm a bath for Evelyn after church. 

“There is to be a trial, but I will not have any involvement in the prosecution,” Father said. 

“I don’t understand.” Evelyn ran ahead of us into our home. The lights inside were warm and inviting after our long walk in the autumn chill. 

“Judge Riddle has requested I not take part in the trial, on the grounds of my involvement with the guilty.” 

“Is he a great friend of yours?” I asked. Father had prosecuted many people before that he had known. It had been his own brother many years ago who had been tried and hanged for murder. 

“Hermione,” Father stopped me before we entered our home. I could hear Evelyn talking amiably inside. “You must promise me that you will be on your best behavior from now on. There is a great danger coming, and I will not have it taking any more of my family.”

“Has something happened to Betsey?” I asked. I could feel a tear well up in my right eye, threatening to spill. 

“You mustn’t shed a tear for her.” Father wiped my face and rested his hands upon my shoulder. He always had a way of making me feel so small. No matter my age, I was always a child to my Father. 

“Is she to be hanged?” I asked. I could be strong. I had faith that I could be strong. 

“The courts are bringing in an expert to review her case.” Father said. “We are all to be interviewed when he arrives.”

“And then she will be hanged?” I knew the answer. Betsey was but a housemaid, in the eyes to the town she was nothing but an animal to do with what they pleased. Betsey was more than that to me, to Evelyn. She had raised us when Mother had bled to death birthing Evelyn. She had sewn all our dresses and kept us fed. She had taught me how to read and of knowledge beyond that of God. 

“She will remain in the jails until the new prosecutor arrives. He will dock within the month.” Father straightened his coat and made way towards the house. “Remember, Hermione. You mustn’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.”

“Of course, Father.” I said. I smoothed my skirt and followed Father into the house. Our new housemaid, who introduced herself as ‘Molly’, took the rabbit from Father’s bag and began to prepare it for supper. Her stew left something to be desired. 


	2. Soil

_Hermione_. 

The wood made many sounds in the night. There were insects that chirped until dawn. There were predatory cats that stalked the night who screamed like women in distress. There were owls who perched in the tree near our home who hooted nonstop throughout the night.

I had thought at first Evelyn had called out to me. The voice was that of a woman, yet it was too low in pitch to be my babe sister. Second in mind was Molly, but Molly hadn’t once pronounced my name properly, and the voice that called out to me was clear.

_Hermione_.

There was a familiarity in the voice that was concerning. I had heard it speak before, but I could not place when or where. It sounded similar to how I remembered my mother’s voice, but she had died giving life to Evelyn, so it could not have been her. 

The field grass tickled my bare calves as I walked closer towards the wood. It had been a long time since I had run through the fields without shoes or proper dress. I used to run through the meadows and swim in the streams near naked with the late doctor’s son, Harry. We spent much of our youth exploring the wood and world around the town, but once I got my first bleed and Harry began to grow into a man, we were not permitted to be alone with one another. 

_Hermione_.

There was melody to her voice. I enjoyed the way she sang my name out to me; it was like a hymn but devoted to me and not to God. It was gentle, I decided. There was no harm in the wood, I was safe.

Evelyn had once talked about the voices in the wood. Father had hushed her, but she had told me an Angel was calling to her. I now believed her word to be true. There was a great evil overcoming the town and a guardian of the wood was calling out as if to say, “everything will be alright, have faith in me.” 

But the Butcher’s son had died after hearing the voices. 

I reached the threshold into the wood. The trees were high into the night sky, and the moon’s light did not break through the canopy. I could not see beyond the first few rows of trees, and yet I was not afraid to continue. 

“Have faith,” I said aloud to myself. “Dear Father, grant your spirit to comfort, guide, and lead my stead.” I prayed. “May You never abandon me. Arise to my help in richness of covenant blessings, keep me feeding in the pastures of Your strengthening Word. Your presence alone can make me holy, strong, and safe. Abide in me, gracious God.”

I waited, for what I could not say. Be it a sign of divine interference, of acknowledgment, or of caution. Nothing of such did come. 

_Hermione_. 

There it was again. What was once a whisper through the night now was strong and clear. It was coming from deep into the wood.

Father has said faith would protect me always. God would not let me wander into peril, this I was sure of. This voice that called me was of divine origin. Perhaps I had been chosen to bring sanctity back to our town. Perhaps it was my strong faith in God that allowed me to be called into the wood.

_Hermione._

The night was cold, yet a warmth radiated throughout the wood. I felt all remaining doubt and fear thaw from my body. There was light ahead of me. The firelight danced against the trees and turned the forest orange with its glow. 

_Hermione, is that you?_

The voice was coming from the fire, like the burning bush of Moses. I could almost see the flames now; I would be among them in a dozen or so strides. The heat was stronger as I neared the fire; I could feel beads of sweat form at my temple. 

“Invited by Your promises, called by Your Spirit, I enter Your presence.” I stopped in the wood to admire the beauty of God’s flames. They reached near the canopy and were filled with a brightness I had never seen before. Even the sun’s rays could not compare to the strength of God’s radiant light. “I am awed by Your majesty, greatness, and glory-”

_But encouraged by Your love._

I felt at once as if I had been pulled into the embrace of Betsey. The side of my face felt just as if I had lain my cheek against her bosom. I could feel her arms around my waist as tightly as the last time we had said our goodbyes. In my ears were her steady heartbeat and the soft hum of her voice as she sighed into our embrace. I closed my eyes and I could smell the herbs she had been cooking with, and the lavender she used to freshen our linens, and the slight musk from her day of hard work. 

I wrapped my arms around her, but her embrace had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and I opened my eyes to the familiar walls of my bedroom.

I felt like crying. It had been two weeks since Molly had arrived to replace Betsey. My heart ached for her every night and I could not bear to think about the conditions of the cell she had been tethered to. 

She had been so real in my dream that I felt as if her scent lingered on my skin. The weight of my blanket was featherlight compared to Betsey’s embrace. I would have lain awake in bed until the sun rose thinking of her if not for the entrance of Evelyn. 

“There’s a witch at my window,” cried Evelyn. Her face was wet with tears and her bedclothes were soiled from fear. 

“I’m sure it’s just the wind.” I said. I patted my bed to beckon Evelyn and she ran to my side. “Have you forgotten what Father has said about the night?” I tugged Evelyn’s sleep-tousled hair out of her two braids and reworked them into one plait. 

“Strange sounds come from familiar places.” Evelyn recited. She kept still until I had finished with her hair and then nestled herself under the blankets with me. She smelled strongly of urine, but I cradled her to my chest, nonetheless. 

“I once woke Father and Mother up in the night because I believed a devil had made its nest below my bed.” I kissed the top of Evelyn’s head. “Mother came into my room and looked underneath to find a frog. It had been his croaking that woke me.”

“Will you tell me more stories of Mother?” Evelyn asked. It was a simple request, but my mouth had filled with cotton. Evelyn had been a blessing, but her arrival brought consequence. Father never spoke of Mother, and I had learned to hold my tongue. 

“Another time, perhaps.” I brushed a loose strand of hair out of Evelyn’s face. “Now is time for sleep.” Evelyn closed her eyes and I whispered to her our nightly prayer, “This night I renew my penitence. Every morning I vow to love.”

“It really was a witch,” Evelyn said, her voice low with sleep. “I saw her eyes peeking above my windowsill.”

“Nonsense,” I shushed her. “It could not have been eyes that you saw, dear Evelyn. We are on the second floor. Do not speak of it again or you will upset Father.” 

I waited until Evelyn’s breath had evened to sneak myself from bed. The wooden floor was cold, but it was the dried mud on my feet that concerned me. I peeled the blanket off of Evelyn and stared long at the soil that stained my bed linens. It seemed that at some point in the night I had taken a stroll, and the lingering scent of Betsey broke my skin into gooseflesh.


	3. Eve

The air was turning violent; it stung my cheeks and lips as the wind wound my dress between my thighs and my bonnet near clean off my head. By the rate my fingertips had gone numb, I’d predict winter would be blistering this year. Molly had yet to finish a new coat for me, and the chill of the morning found its way between the weaves of old cotton coat and deep into my aching skin.

The walk uphill towards the church building seemed longer whilst alone. I hadn’t been without a companion since Evelyn was small; she always kept close to my heel. 

The quiet of the morning was maddening; I kept turning my head as if the whispers of my dream had returned and beckoned to me from beneath the cobblestone or from behind a lamppost. What comfort the dream had given me now weighed heavy on my heart. I felt as if my name had been desacralized; I knew, now, that whatever had spoken to me was not of holy origin and Betsey’s scent had penetrated my skin and burned sin into my pores.

I could see the church building on the horizon; it was a marvel of God’s beauty. When Evelyn was yet just a babe, The Pastor had been struck with divine that the church be modified to show the full extent of God’s providence. He had glass made overseas and shipped in that told the story of Adam and Eve: our wellspring. 

Father hadn’t been so partial to the changes, as the church building was also the courthouse, but The Pastor had insisted that this was God’s plan for our town. The Pastor had promised that once the time was right, a new court would be constructed. 

“What law do we protect but that of God?” The Pastor had asked Father. Father never spoke about it again. 

I was so close to the church that I could see all of the details in Eve’s depiction. The pomegranate, made up with complex fragments of purple and red hued glass, rested in Eve’s left hand. The Pastor had much to say about the forbidden fruit, and the peril that knowledge had tainted us with. Eve’s body had been left uncovered, much to the town’s dismay, and wrapped around her midsection crawled a black serpent between her breasts. The beast’s head resembled that of a leper, with reddened eyes and sharp teeth that tore into the flesh of Eve’s throat; Eve had been made rotten with The Devil’s venom. 

Adam, of course, was depicted in colored glass on the other side of the heavy oak doors. He, too, was bare, and he was surrounded by God’s creation. Behind him were the Gardens of Eden soldered in vibrant shades of greens, pinks, and yellows. At his feet stood a beast on all fours, with a mane of golden fur and a mouth full of glistening white fangs. 

It struck me at an early age the juxtaposition of man versus woman. Adam had been idolized as the keeper of all of God’s creations, the father of humanity, and the victim to Eve’s maliciousness. Eve was forever remembered as the one who wavered from God’s path. Eve and Adam had committed the same sin, and yet Eve was the only one we persecuted. 

Father would think me mad if he knew what went through my head. 

“What a pleasant surprise to see you here so early, Ms. Granger.” The Pastor approached from behind me and greeted me with a warm smile. 

“Good morning, Pastor. I was hoping that I may seek counsel with you this morning before sermon.” I placed my hand inside the pocket of my coat and wrapped my fingers around a small pouch that held dirt from my sheets. 

“The Lord always has time for the devout, Ms. Granger.” The Pastor rested his left hand on the door of the church and bowed his head in prayer. “I enter Your presence, o Lord, worshipping You with godly fear, awed by Your majesty, greatness, and glory, but encouraged by Your love.”

It struck my heart with ice to hear The Pastor speak the very prayer I had in the wood. It was a common prayer, I knew, but The Pastor’s delivery and the voice I had heard in the wood bore uncanny resemblance. My heart begged me to excuse myself and return home until the sermon, but my mind ached for answers to the meaning of my dream that I knew only The Pastor would hold. 

It seemed to be common practice recently that my heart and head would be so conflicted. I wondered which part of me had divine interference: my head or my heart. Something was guiding my stead, and I hoped it be God, but I had such a hard head that I couldn’t tell the will of God from that of my own free will.

“Some believe that the Lord guides our hearts,” The Pastor said as he unlocked the church doors. “Others say that he speaks to our mind.” 

“And which, Pastor, would you say is truth?”

“Neither.” The Pastor opened the doors and walked forward into the darkness of the nave. I stood at the entrance in the cold, dumbstruck by The Pastor’s words. 

“Your holiness,” The Pastor spoke from the altar at the front of the church. He began to light the candles around his podium, illuminating himself in a soft yellow glow. “If the enemy gets an advantage through my corruption, let it be that those for me are greater than those against me. Grant that in every fall I may sink lower on my knees, and that when I rise it may be to loftier heights of devotion.”

“Pastor?” I crossed the threshold into the church and let the heavy oak doors close behind me with a deafening slam. “I’m not sure I understand. If not by way of heart or head, how does the Lord speak to us?”

“Ms. Granger,” The Pastor lit his last candle and blew out his match. “If God were truly speaking to you, you would know it.” He grabbed his bible from its stand behind the podium and thumbed through the worm pages. I could see from where I stood the annotations he had written in the margins of the pages. 

“Then, Pastor, I fear I have been spoken to by something of other origin.” I bowed my head in shame of the confession. I felt, in that moment, a heavy weight against my heart; I wondered if Eve’s shame had been so burdensome. 

“What is it you bring to me in your pocket, Ms. Granger?” 

The Pastor must have been a great man of God for God to speak to him so often. It had been many of times that The Pastor knew answers to unspoken questions, or cures to ailments that struck doctors dumb. We were a blessed town to have the glory of our Pastor, who time and time again was conduit of the Lord’s receivings. 

I pulled the pouch from my pocket and placed it in The Pastor’s outstretched hand. 

“I dreamt that I was walking through the wood in the night,” I said. The Pastor pinched a small portion of the dirt out of the bag and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “When I awoke, my linens were sullied. I fear that what I saw last night was not just a dream.”

“Do you know what today is, Ms. Granger?” The Pastor released the dirt back into the pouch and placed it in his pocket. 

“Sunday?” I questioned.

“It is the day in which our town’s greatest salvation, and yet our greatest foe, shall arrive.” The Pastor returned to his bible and continued to find his place for sermon. “It would do us all our best to keep such things to ourselves until our guests return overseas from which they came.”

“But what of my dream?” I couldn’t leave without an answer. My mouth was dry and my palms were sweaty. 

“A dream is a dream, Ms. Granger. It would be naive to think otherwise.” I heard the oak doors open as the first of the townsfolk entered the church, hoping that their being early would be in God’s favor. 

“But Pastor,” I lowered my voice so not to nourish the rumor of the town. “I heard the voices call my name. I need the Lord’s guidance; I beg for your aid.”

“My guidance for you, dear child, is that you keep such things to yourself.” The Pastor greeted the early townsfolk with a nod of the head and then returned his gaze to me. “Finding the answers you seek will only pave way for your execution, Ms. Granger.”

Since I was a child I had prided myself in my adroitness; It had seemed as if I would have a retort for any unkind words or actions that were presented to me. Who, but myself, would have the courage to stick up for the impoverished, sickly, or enslaved. I had spent many nights banished to my room to think about the shame and trouble my quick wit would bring my family, and yet, to The Pastor’s words, I had no gumption.

_Execution_. He had said. Was that the fate that Betsey awaited while she sat, alone, in her jail cell. 

“Hermione!” I heard Evelyn’s babe voice call from the church’s entrance. I turned to see her holding hands with Molly. Father entered right behind them, walking alongside Judge Riddle.

“You should return to your family, Ms. Granger,” The Pastor dismissed me. “Family is important in times like these.”

“These are perilous times,” The Pastor spoke calmly. Father, Evelyn, and I sat in our usual pew in the front row of service. It was an honor, Father had said, to be seated so close to the Lord’s word. Molly sat at the back of the church building with, what I could only assume to be, her family. At least she’d been allowed to attend sermon, as Betsey had been forbidden due to her complexion. “The bile of transgression burns holes into our flesh, leaving gaping wounds for the sin to poison the temple that is our body, mind, and soul.”

I could feel the collective fear of the congregation swirling through the stale air of the church. When The Pastor had replaced the old windows with the colored glass, he had inadvertently cut off the circulation of the building. On days like this, when the sermon was exceptionally tense, the air was suffocating. It was the depictions in the glass, in addition to the sharp words of The Pastor, that sealed the congregation’s discomfort. Behind The Pastor, in full imagery, was the fall of Lucifer. 

“A war has found its home in our town: a war of grim prospects.” The Pastor made his way around his podium and began to descend the few steps of his platform. “We are delirious in our assembly of troops and weapons, unaware that the enemy has already struck us dead while we slept.” The Pastor made his way past our front pew to walk down the center aisle of the church. He kept his bible in his left hand as he hovered his right above member’s of the congregation’s heads: a silent, quick prayer for their souls.

“You come faithfully to sermon every week and sit in The Lord’s house pretending to be a Christian, and yet you curse, and you fornicate, and you violate The Lord’s word the very instant you cross the threshold of The Lord’s house and your own.” The Pastor’s voice was becoming strident as he reached the back of the church. Most of the congregation, Father and Evelyn included, turned their heads to follow The Pastor as he walked; I kept my eyes locked forward.

Lucifer was depicted in many shades of beiges and pinks. He looked, to me, no more than a person, except the white wings that shed their feathers as he descended. Hell had always been described to me as something flaming and sanguine, but The Pastor had commissioned the glass to be atramentous, as if the real punishment of Hell was not to burn for eternity, but to be lost entirely in a sea of darkness. 

“Your tether to The Lord has been severed by your adversary and now the wound is infected, and what becomes of infection but death?” The Pastor reached the back of the church and circled to walk up the west side of the church alongside the faces of Moses, Cain, Able, Noah, and Job, whose face was full of tears. “It is not the fault of Satan, who commands the army of beasts that tempt and taunt us, but that of yourself who opened your soul to sin as a whore spreads her legs.” 

I saw The Pastor’s youngest brother, Credence, pick at his wrist with the nail of his forefinger. He sat, as always, a few feet to my left on the pew. We hadn’t spoken in years, as he had grown into a man, and I a woman. Where he had scratched on his wrist was raw and bloody, tinting the underside of his nail red. Credence glanced my direction and met my gaze, his face pale and slick with sweat. 

I wished to ask if he were ill, as he certainly appeared to be so, but the intensity of his stare was discomforting and so I took Evelyn’s hand in mine, averting my gaze to The Pastor for the first time all sermon. 

The Pastor had reached the front of the church again, still hovering his healing hand above the town’s heads. “There is a cure, thankfully, for infection.” The Pastor ascended the steps to his podium, where he rested his bible in front of him.

“Rive,” Credence spoke. He picked at his skin again, his foot tapping against the wooden floor rapidly. The rasp of his voice pricked my skin. 

“Have faith in The Lord.” The Pastor nearly whispered. The congregation began to simmer; murmured voices began to rise from behind me as the townsfolk were possessed with the word of God. 

“Have _faith_ in The Lord.” The Pastor said again, with raised voice. A man from the right of the church began to speak in tongues, spewing gibberish above the hushed voices of prayers of forgiveness. 

I could see Credence, in the corner of my eye, crack his knuckles one by one, pressing his wrists into his thighs where, for the first time, I could see the evidence of blood coming from both wrists. 

“Have faith in _The Lord_ , and he will _heal_ your infection,” The Pastor roared. The outburst of the congregation startled me, as what was whisperers became hollering and more bouts of glossolalia. “You must sever yourself from the demons that have laid siege to your souls! Cast out your demons and wear your knees out with prayer.” 

A foul odor wafted from Credence’s seat. It was a breath of unwelcome familiarity.

It had been once the screams had settled that I asked father where my babe brother may be. We hadn’t known which would come, a boy or girl, so we hoped for a brother. He was to be called Abraham. 

Mother had gone into labor before the sun had risen, and it was long into the night when the doctor stepped from her room carrying my sweet babe sister in his arms. Evelyn was crying, something that was the norm to her, as she never had a breast to nurse on. The doctor hadn’t said a word, but Father dropped to his knee to tell me Mother was gone. 

“She’s gone to Heaven,” he had said. I didn’t want her to go to Heaven, not yet. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye, I hadn’t been allowed in her room once the labor set in.

I fought my way into her room and stayed with Mother until they forced me out. I cried into her bosom for what felt like eternity, long after her flesh had hardened and softened again, and the sick-inducing smell of decay made home in my nostrils and at the back of my throat.

  
That was the smell that came from Credence that day. 

“As a doctor amputates a leg from a soldier wounded in war, we must amputate the weakness of our souls caused by sin.” The Pastor could barely be heard above the voices of the congregation; the loudest voices came from the back of the room.

“Mr. Barebone?” It was still strange to refer to him so formally, as I had once considered him a great friend. His eyes were fixed ahead at The Pastor; I reached out tentatively to touch his forearm. “You’re bleeding.”

Without breaking his gaze, Credence tugged his sleeves over his wounds, the linen immediately soaking through with blackened blood. The congregation was ear-splitting with prayer requests and accusations of other people’s sin. Evelyn had covered her ears and buried her face in Father’s side. 

It was not uncommon for sermons to become rambunctious. Father had said that in times of great stress, the town becomes panicked and the only relief is that of The Lord. It had seemed that we were in such panic, and every proclamation of distress or request for salvation made the air a little thinner.

“Let us grab some fresh air,” I said to Credence, who had begun to sweat profusely. “Perhaps the autumnal chill will soothe us.”

It was easier to guide Credence to stand than I thought it would be. Luckily, the congregation had already begun to approach The Pastor and were swarming the front pews, reaching up to the platform waiting for The Pastor to wave a hand over them. We stuck close to the western wall of the church, beneath glass of the ten plagues, and exited without trouble.

The wind had calmed since the morning and the sun had begun to warm the air. I walked with Credence a hundred yards behind the church building through the sparse wood. The hilltop ended where the ocean crashed against the cliff face, casting salty mist into the winds. It was an unfavorable day to be atop the hill, as it was much colder there, but it served us best to not be seen alone together lest the rumour mill cast us sinners.

“I should throw myself to the sea, let Ceto drown me and consume my flesh.” Credence picked a stone from the ground and tossed it to the waves. His hair was damp against his temples from sweat, but the color had returned to his face. There was a time I had thought him handsome, believing that someday I’d be his wife, but over the years I’d begun to value ingenuity over beauty; Credence was smart, but he was not clever.

“I’m not sure I know of what you refer to.” There was a time in which I hated Credence; he had freedom that I would never know. The Pastor had gifted Credence a number of books of non-holy origin, leather bound sets of Greek poetry and literature, of which I was not allowed to view. I pleaded often for a chance to leaf through them, but Credence had forbade it.

“They’re not for a woman to view,” he had said. It was the first time he had referred to me in such a way: a woman. His words struck me in the face like mud; I never felt clean again. That was the last time I had spoken to Credence. We sat beside each other in sermon for nearly four years after: silent. 

“He was talking about me.” The ocean nearly drowned his voice. I took a step closer towards Credence to better hear his words; he had always been soft-spoken. “Albus was talking about me.”

“The Pastor speaks of metaphor,” I said. I wanted to rest my hand on Credence’s shoulder, knowing what comfort he would find in such a gesture, but I couldn’t find the strength to forget his harsh words. “If you actually listen, he says the same things every sermon.” 

“You’re wrong, Hermione.” Credence dropped to his knees, his head sunk towards the dirt. “I’ve fallen victim to The Devil and he rots me from the core. I’ve been mutilated with holy mockery.” He was crying now; the weight of his tears pulled deeply at my heart. 

“They say that Vincent heard his grandmother call to him from the wood,” Credence said. The air thinned as he talked about The Butcher’s Boy. I hadn’t heard his name called since before he’d been discovered; his name had become a curse in the town. “She had just been laid to rest, this Vincent knew, but he could not resist her once she called out to him. Mr. Crabbe had said that her death had been hard on Vincent. He loved her more than anything.”

“I heard them, too,” I whispered. “What do you know of these voices, Credence? I must know.”

“Do not follow them.” Credence looked up at me, his eyes red from tears. “I thought that he had a plan for me,” he said. “I saw an angel in the wood, Hermione, and he was beautiful. The light he cast was warm against my flesh, and the words he spoke slowed my heart with serenity. He asked me to give myself to him, as The Lord commanded I do, and then he discarded me once he’d moved on to the next.” 

Credence rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the still bleeding wounds on his wrists. “Stigmata,” he said. “Like where they nailed Jesus to the cross. Vincent had come to Albus, not a week before he was found hanged, bruised at the neck. The Devil has used me up and he wants me to know how he will dispose of me.”

“You don’t know that Credence,” I said. “The bible says that The Lord will always forgive. If you beg, he will save you.”

“The Lord may save my soul, but he cannot save me from prosecution.. Albus knows already I’ve been marked by The Devil, and I have no reason to believe he will not share my condition with the Witchfinder General.”

“Hermione!” I heard the sweet voice of Evelyn call out to me above the murmur of the townspeople leaving the sermon.

“You should go, you don’t want to be seen with the marked.” Credence stood suddenly and covered his wounds. 

“When does he arrive? The General?” Father had prepared me for this, for Betsey’s trial. It had only been a couple of weeks that Betsey had been accused and I was running out of time to prove her innocence. “There’s still time to fix this, Credence, don’t give up faith yet.”

“You’re wrong, Hermione,” Credence said. “How can someone as smart as you always be wrong.”

“I’ve found you,” Evelyn sang as she emerged from the trees. “And Mr. Barebone is here too!” Evelyn ran up to Credence’s side and wrapped her arms around his leg, as she so often had done as a toddler. “You’ve got to come for supper sometime, Ms. Molly makes the greatest goat stew.” Credence patted her head, as he had done so many times before when we were still friends. “You’ll really come, won’t you? Promise you’ll come, swear it.”

“Perhaps I’ll come this week, if your father permits it,” Credence said, his voice calm.

“Ms. Molly will probably make the biggest supper ever on Wednesday!” Evelyn smiled. “My mommy’s coming home, I’m going to ask Ms. Molly if she’ll make fresh bread, mommy loves fresh bread.”

Evelyn released Credence’s leg and grabbed my hand. “When mommy comes home do you think that she’ll braid my hair? Betsey made the best braids, but Ms. Molly-” I couldn’t listen any longer. I had felt as Evelyn had stabbed me in the gut and had twisted my insides in her small, innocent hands. She pulled me by the arm away from Credence, who I hadn’t looked back upon, and led me back towards the church. She spoke of mother the entire way, telling me to keep her arrival a secret from father. It wasn’t until we broke the tree line, and she let go of me to run to father, that I saw the thin, jagged scar running across the back of her neck just underneath her bonnet. 


End file.
